


This Is How

by seperis



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-14
Updated: 2004-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long time.  Marauders-era fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is How

Severus remembers when it's silent in Hogwarts and the nights grow longer in winter, when there's nothing else to do and no one to do it with, students safe in their beds and classrooms silent. When he closes his eyes or when he opens them, when he wraps long fingers around the narrow neck of a bottle and thinks of Black in a far away place, hiding from himself as surely as he hides from the world.

Dumbledore's disappointed face and the slump of Lupin's shoulders beneath the ragged traveling cloak. A wash of images and murmured voices and thoughts that fill his mind, more inescapable than Voldemort, more powerful than magic, more binding than a broken promise.

There's a caldron of wolfsbane that boils in the corner. Like clockwork, he sends a bottle a month.

He wonders if Lupin ever gets them.

* * *

This is how it starts.

Like this, beneath a tree that grew in one night, a prodigy, a wonder to behold (never seen anything like it, Flitwick murmured as they circled it during class, brilliant, prodigal, what can one expect from him, though?), grass the color of a summer dream and the lithe body that stretched beneath, prosaic with a frown of concentration and fingers scrabbling idly on the blanket like they'd tear through by will alone.

They might at that, but Severus isn't stupid enough to say what he can't prove.

Hours since Black and Potter abandoned their fun to find better game, and it's some comfort, beneath a Snape, beneath a Slytherin, to watch Evans turn her back when Potter slips through, oblivious of the sighs of the girls who surround him like flies to water. Bright, careless smile, wand in one lax hand, and one hex would throw him in the water before them all.

But. That's beneath a Snape, too. Always to the face, always watch their eyes, and always let them know who did it and why. Even when the why's nothing more than just because. I. Can.

They're far from the water's edge now, though, and Snape watches pale lips form words, the tremble of untouched power, moving, whispering for release. It's an attraction in itself, this feeling, that art, leashed inside mere words and beneath unquiet stillness.

Lupin fools them all with that surface that never moves, even when it does.

Severus knows how power feels, the ripening edge that begs for release.

"Picking up a few tips, are you?"

Lupin doesn't look up, and Snape wonders about that--ten feet and a bush between them, but the feeling of being watched doesn't dissipate to logic.

"Bored, maybe."

A sharp look up, book forgotten across bony, bent knees--Lupin plods like Black and Potter skim, like learning's more than a skill to master but something to be consumed whole.

Circling the bush, they're in easy view of each other--third of four learning the hard way by rote when his friends master at a glance, and Snape, who never fit with anyone and never would, never wanted to.

A sounds of splashing draw their eyes away, to the water, to the boys who play at war with wands raised and laughing, wet girls surrounding them. Black a careless, elegant sprawl on the ground, soaked to the skin, flipping dark hair back with a slim hand and grinning up at the hovering James. Evans walks away with a toss of her head, and Potter scrambles to his feet to watch her leave.

Black watches Potter like Lupin's watching Black, and that's a secret that Severus keeps close and smiles over often. There's little that can be hidden when you know what to look for.

"What do you want?" Lupin only sounds tired--it's like this sometimes, when the days seem to drag longer and Lupin's eyes fix on the sky at night like he wants to be anywhere but here. Another secret to file away and keep close. Restless beneath his skin, twitching fingers and a long, lean body vibrating with the need to _move_. I'll find out, Severus wants to tell him. You can't hide from me forever. I want to _know_.

"You're having problems with Transfigurations?" It's not his art, but he's seen Lupin's work. Someone who can call down curses and hexes without effort sweating through a teacup turned to turtle and the change from footstool to pig. Mastering potions without effort, almost gifted at charms, but that room, those spells, always just beyond his reach.

If Severus hadn't been curious before, he would have been after the last demonstration in class.

"Not so much that I'd need help from you." Lupin plays at the callousness of Black, but not quite. Tempered inside by something that Severus can't quite understand, that makes every cruelty something that can be seen written on Lupin's skin. Like even to inflict pain, he has to pay for it first.

Severus remembers late spring like this and a thousand times he's watched. Curious first, he wants to _know_. Lupin, slim and awkward when he shouldn't be, shadowing Black and Potter, forgettable even more than Pettigrew, little mushroom who hopped and clambered for attention, annoying and ceaseless, something you wanted to _swat_. Ducking into half-shadows made by Potter, always watching. Letting himself be pet by Black, eyes closed.

Safety's for the weak, Severus thinks, but he's not sure that's precisely what Lupin is doing.

"It's not that hard," Severus says, and Lupin stiffens, lazy sprawl abandoned. "I'd think, considering Potter and Black's proficiency--" Names like razors, but the only blood they draw is metaphorical, and Lupin can't see that.

"I don't require help." The book snaps closed and is pushed aside. "If you'll excuse me-" Lupin stands up, ungainly and awkward again, and it's too perfect to be real. A glance at the water shows the afternoon's wore away, and Potter and Black have disappeared.

"Abandoned?"

Those quiet nights, when Lupin and Black, Potter and Pettigrew sneak out and into the woods--the ones that Lupin comes back from, flushed and awake, filled with something bright, indefinable, when all his spells work and he glows like something incandescent, and no one else _sees_, even the teachers.

It fades, like now, but Severus thinks it's almost time for it again.

"I have work to do." Lupin grabs his bag from the ground, stuffing the book within, the glimpse of a wand. Severus doesn't know he'll do it until he does.

Lazy, even, so few defenses that Severus hasn't learned in five years how to breach. "Expelliarmus."

Even his wand feels different, like him--cold and bright, fitting into his palm with a slow burn, and Lupin takes an eternity to look up from the space in his bag the wand once lay, forever to meet Severus' gaze. A frown that lines his forehead, eyes wide. A singular glimpse into the future of the man he would become in this life, when they've all left school on the paths chosen before they even began.

It's almost sad, in a way that Severus won't appreciate for over a decade of living his choice.

"What do you _want_?"

"You're never going to be one of them." It slips out without thought, unforgivable when Severus chooses his words as carefully as he does his ingredients. But sometimes, it's the worst accidents that score the best hits, a stagger that doesn't go any farther than the skin, the widening of dark eyes that flare amber-bright, like the sun at dusk. "You'll never be what he wants." And why do you even try?

A tremored pause, and Lupin takes a slow step, awkwardness forgotten. Fast--so fucking fast, he hadn't expected that, no spell on his lips, nothing but surprise in his mind, and the touch--ah, that touch, a brush of long fingers when he grasps the wand, the shock of touching something that's seeped in magic, _what is that, how did he do that_, Slytherins know how dark magic tastes when it's acid-good on the back of their tongues, when they cast it in dorm beds and feel it rise around them. It tastes like _this_, like sex when it's good, like power when you wield it.

Seeped into the skin and being of this slim, pale boy who holds the wand to his chest and trembles like Severus knows his every secret when he's beginning to think he doesn't know anything at all.

Staring at each other before Lupin takes a stumbling step back.

"You don't know anything. Leave me alone."

Severus lets him go.

* * *

Another day, five days later perhaps, hollow-eyed but almost glowing, and for once, he overshadows even Potter, energy cycling through him in palpable waves. No one sees except those three--Black, Potter, Pettigrew--and Lupin talks fast, expansive gestures that take in the room and everyone in it, loud and laughing and careless.

That's power, the kind that Severus feels like heat, and it calls him more than any magic any wand could create.

Black, with a slim hand on his thigh beneath the robe, leaning close enough to whisper, and the musical, wild laugh that follows when Lupin leans close, a hair beyond appropriate, to reach for a bowl of peas. The brush of soft brown hair against Sirius' face when he pulls away, and the heat that springs alive between them like that.

Severus, three tables and a world away, thinks Lupin could light up the sky tonight if he tried.

* * *

Another week. It wanes, it always does, and there must be a pattern, but Severus can't quite find it. Lupin, bright at the table, brilliant in class. Fading by hour and hour into invisibility, like the moon above them, and there's something in that which plays in his mind just before sleep, but he never remembers when he wakes.

Something about a Gryffindor who wields dark magic like it's his birthright, and it's more than once that the Defense Against Dark Arts teacher has watched like Severus does. Narrowed eyes and tight lips, reports to Dumbledore, perhaps, wondering if they're breeding a dark magician in the most beloved of all the Houses of Hogwarts.

That fades too, though, and it's that time again, circle to the beginning, but it's not under a tree, it's on the roof and Lupin's walking off the night like he's running from time itself.

"What are you doing here?" It's snapped, seconds before Lupin should know he's here, seconds before any wizard _could_. A sharp, graceless turn and skid, staring at him from behind dark eyes, tight mouth, coiled energy with no outlet but this.

"Are you following me?"

Severus won't lower himself to stating the obvious. "Where do you go?"

Lupin perhaps didn't expect truth, and Severus files that away for later use. Truth is a weapon like any other.

"I--don't go anywhere." And Gryffindors have yet to learn how to lie. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Lupin turns again, another wild pace of barely controlled limbs, nothing here of grace, raw and unfocused. Classes with him today had been studies in incompetence.

Vulnerable, without Potter and Black to hide him, to hide behind. Stripped to skin, bone, and plain robes. Even from here, Severus can feel it. Power. It's addictive, and he wants to _touch_. Just once, feel that strumming in his blood like the first time, the only time.

"You're lying. I'll find out, you know." He will. There's little he doesn't know, less that he doesn't care to. Information is just another kind of weapon.

"Fuck off!"

There. Like _that_. Shimmer in the air around them, something huge, like a charge in the air just before the biggest storms, electrical, like the second before adding the final ingredient. Potential.

Lupin's close enough to breathe--like the forest, the smells of the earth, like he's been rolling on the ground for hours wet and dirty, no Gryffindor's ever felt like this, no Slytherin would know what it was if they felt it. So close that the charge wraps around them both, and Severus' voice begins to murmur something--a charm, a hex, something, draw him out, and the ozone-taste of air on his tongue, it's what calls him, this, Lupin's like this all over, soaked into his skin, and Severus touches because he can't help himself.

Self-control is a memory when he gets _skin_.

And Lupin. Doesn't. Move.

"You feel--" Like everything we do in the dungeons that you never know about, any of you, but it's never been like this. Pale imitations of this reality when they take out their wands and forbidden books, pass on centuries of all the knowledge of every wizard who ever touched the dark side and came away with a taste for it. _Power_. Lupin's so filled with it. Living, breathing, so fucking _dangerous_, like those spells Malfoy calls up effortlessly in their chambers, blood magic's only a pale imitation of this. What they're all searching for those endless nights. God, he should have been Slytherin. The things we'd do with you, do to you, what you'd ask to do to us, you don't know, Lupin, but we'd want you more than anyone else could ever dream.

"Don't." But Lupin's breathless, and Severus pulls impatiently at the robe. More of that, a flare of cold heat with every touch. Smooth skin, so fine after coarse wool, chemical-roughened fingers instantly addicted. No scars, even when he pulls more cloth away, no one could be this perfect.

How could Black touch this and ever _stop_?

"Stop." The robe's puddled at his feet and Lupin's grasp on his wrist _hurts_, he'll have to go to the hospital wing and get this fixed tonight and he doesn't care. Strained muscles screaming, but he has another hand, has a mouth, can use both, and Lupin makes a low sound that can't be human (file that away for later), and the hand on his wrist loosens, sliding up his arm. "You--what _is_ that--"

These flares of pure sensation. Like magic feels when you cast it. Lupin can feel it, too.

Gryffindors don't know about so many things. The things Snape murmurs beneath his breath, wand hot in his pocket when he pulls it out and presses it between them, power flaring and Lupin--growls, low and dark, so dark--fingers in his hair, pulling him close, and the kiss--

Electric, flow and ebb of air and nothing, but the goddamn _world's_ got to be feeling this.

"What are you--what are you _doing_?" Lupin sounds drugged, kneeling on the rough stone, hands pressed into the stone like he could break through it, like if he stops, they'll be back on Severus' skin. Cold air and night between them, and Severus' mouth burns. He hadn't realized he'd lost his own robes "What did--what did you _do_?"

Severus has no idea, but he's staring at those long fingers and wondering if they can do it again.

* * *

Six days later. Circle around to the end, or the beginning, when Lupin comes back from wherever he doesn't go, and Severus wasn't looking for him, not this time. It's almost painful to be this close and not be able to touch, an entire hall between them, a ripple of feeling, when Severus woke every night feeling it, hard beneath his pajamas, no idea what it is but it tastes like Lupin's skin.

Acid, raw, bittersweet, need. He sometimes feels grass beneath his hands and grasps at his blankets to ground himself, and he can smell the forest around him in the dungeon every day Lupin is away.

His homework is suffering.

This time, though. Lupin, alone, as elegant as Black has ever been, incandescent that night as he waves Potter and Black ahead and goes to the library. Coiling exhaustion and energy in every step, like it's will alone that moves him but will is all he'll ever need. Severus thinks of earlier, outside the first floor bathroom that no one uses, Lupin pushing Black up against the wall, the slow, endless kiss that made Black shiver, and Lupin stepping back, sleepy-eyed and alive, like he never really seems to be except these times. Black, one hand touching bruised lips, wide eyes, suddenly younger, less jaded, less sure. This second where Lupin didn't seem to notice, then the second he did.

All that light going out like a snuffed candle, and Black walking away.

It's five million fucking rows of books, but it shouldn't be a surprise where he finds him. A teacher's note beside him and Lupin cross-legged on the floor, a dusty black book in his lap. Fingers flicking down the page and turning fast, mumbled words.

"I won't even ask." The book closes with a snap. Snape glances at the cover, but the protections of the library doesn't let him read the words. "I'm not in the mood tonight."

Severus leans into the bookcase. "I told you that he'll never want you like you want him to."

The snarl's strangely appropriate on Lupin's face. "Fuck. Off."

"Did he finally toss you off?'

"Shut up." Not enough heat. Lupin must be wondering the same thing.

"I wouldn't." Keep him like a pet, perhaps. When Lupin looks up, Severus smirks, watching the long fingers freeze.

"Wouldn't what?" He sounds--tired. Severus wants him back, the boy downstairs who could light a universe, the one who no one seems to really see.

Slow, easy drop to his knees, watching Lupin watch him, wary and scared. "Toss you off."

It's appropriate that they're doing this here--surrounded by all the fruits of a thousand dark wizards and a thousand who fought them, Lupin shifting into a boneless crouch, like he'll run or leap or maybe just howl--(howl? remember that, don't forget)--but nothing like anything Severus says isn't interesting.

Isn't being weighed by that Gryffindor honor against the want that he's emanating like heat. A slip of skin on his throat, revealed by the gap in his robes, and Snape moves close enough to lean forward and taste.

Electric. Bitter. Chlorophyll and metal. Hands on his head that pull him up before he's had near enough, and Lupin kisses him.

Familiar, like being wrapped in spells in the dungeons, God, if they had him, the things they could do.... Drunk on his skin, the way he feels beneath Severus' palms, slick and silky and hard. He's rolled on his back, robes kicked aside, and Severus wraps his legs around lean hips and lets Lupin take--his mouth, his body, it's rippling through them both, and he's never been so hard in his life, grinding up to get those flares of energy off of him, hear guttural sounds against his mouth, his jaw, his neck, and Severus digs his nails in and holds on.

"God," Lupin whispers, shuddering, sucking hard on his pulse, but it's only pain that's just too good to share, keeps his teeth locked on his lip and his fingers curled into claws, rocking up, imagining this as skin on skin, nothing to dull the pressure or the connection. He wants more.

"Yes." Voice raw, wanting more of this, Severus has done so much but has never done this. Lupin holding himself up on one arm and messy, wet sucks across his collarbone, thrusting against him through wool and cotton, too many clothes but it's too good to matter. "More."

"We can't...." Shaking above him, coming apart, and he can feel it. A forest at night, a hunt across a grassy stretch of land beneath the moonlight, the scent of prey, the sound of water running close, Severus opens wide eyes on Lupin and stops breathing.

"Remus--"

The world explodes in brilliant, cold white light that burns through to the bone.

Nothing's ever been this good.

* * *

"...and what?"

There's a lot of reasons Severus hates Black. Arrogant, condescending bastard, all glitter-bright and too-smart, even for a Black. Generations of wizard inbreeding have left their mark in all the right ways--talent, intelligence, ruthless charm. Power. Blacks take what they want when they want it.

All except this one, who wants what he won't quite bring himself to take.

"I was busy." Lupin pushes past, unusual enough to make Black blink, and writes something down on the notebook in one hand, charmed to adjust for the uneveness of movement. "You were occupied, I thought?"

"This about Candace?"

Such a name, Candace-Candy, a bad joke. Sweet like candy and as bright as a brick wall, but talented, yes.

"No, it's about finals. I have to get this--"

"Don't give me that. You weren't in your room last night."

Leaning into the north school wall, Severus watches them from behind a bush, screened from any but the most skilled eyes. Black's hand on Lupin's shoulder makes him frown, an easy intimacy that Lupin would allow from no one else. "I was in the library."

Blacks are ruthless, but they're also patient. The hand doesn't move, but softens, fingers curving to touch the skin revealed by the open collar of Lupin's shirt. Possessive, the way he touches, like he knows he's welcome, like he knows he's allowed. "I wanted to see you."

"Sorry." Lupin pulls away, but reluctantly, letting the touch linger. Snape can taste the sweat on that skin. "Can we talk about this later--"

"I want to talk about it now." Blacks don't know the meaning of the word 'no', however implied or obvious it might be.

Lupin sighs, pulling back farther, but turns to face him. The sun outlines him in gold, some impossible cliche about beauty and strength, but it's the line of his spine, the tilt of his head, the lighting of brown eyes to something fierce. Filling with sunlight like he's been soaking it in all day.

"You're afraid of me." It's so low, so soft, so dark. So much more pain than four simple words should hold, and Black isn't stupid, he's got to feel it too. The hand returns and this time, Lupin doesn't wait to shrug it off.

"I'm not." A step closer, as good as touch, personal space a mystery. "I'm not afraid."

"Last night--"

"You just surprised me." Long, elegant fingers on Lupin's face, and God, he wants to believe so badly anyone could see it. "Just surprise, Lupin. You aren't--like that usually."

"Like what?"

Black's stroking slows, hesitates. "I could feel it."

Lupin pulls back, too sharp, all wide eyes and clumsy like he always seems to be when Black is near. "I don't--it's--"

"Surprised me is all." Black watches with an intensity that has no competition--no one focuses like he does, all that strength of will brought to bear, break down resistance, shatter and ground it like dust, and Lupin wavers. "Just didn't expect it. Come on. It was--different."

Lupin swallows, nodding slowly, and this time, when Black touches him, he doesn't move away.

"It was an accident," Lupin whispers, and Black nods. "It won't happen again."

"Come on. Potter's probably wondering where we got to."

The possessive hand that brushes Lupin's back as he passes Black is only a coda of something he thinks he always knew.


End file.
